


In Spite, We Rejoice Like Stars

by barbiehighheels



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn, cass and leliana are mama bears, fluff!, sera + inquisitor are like a party sorority together, so fluff!, teenage!Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiehighheels/pseuds/barbiehighheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evelyn Trevelyan is only an apprentice mage when the Circle at Ostwick falls. She is young, a party girl, and a bit of a slacker—who has not gotten around to declaring an element as her specialty yet. Senior Enchanters drag Evelyn to the Conclave for a reason, but the next thing she knows is waking up in a dungeon wearing chains while a bald elf in pajamas apologizes to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leliana I

_8 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age_  

_Commander—_

_Just an update. The apostate says there is still no change._

_-Cassandra Pentaghast_

 

* * *

 

**8 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age**

**Camp Village, Haven**

Sister Leliana Nightingale, Left Hand of the Divine and spymaster, pressed a knuckle against her chapped lips as she peered down at the hasty map of hostile encampments near their area. Her scouts had reported back spillage of the Mage and Templar war throughout the entire south half of the country. Both apostates and rogue Templars were content to continue their war anywhere they pleased, it seemed, ignorant to civilian casualty. Of which there was plenty.

Civil war brewed to the west, in Leliana’s home country of Orlais—the Empress Celene had taken the throne from her cousin by political maneuver a decade before, and now her warlord cousin was a grown man and ready to fight for it back. The country was in chaos.

Tutting her tongue, Leliana selected from a range of small objects: a thimble, a shot glass, an iron figure of a shaggy puppy, a messy ball of twine, and smooth, lead fishing weights. She chose the puppy for civil war in Orlais.

The murder of Divine Justinia, her mentor. The conclave explosion. And the gasping green gash hanging in the sky following it—that was to the northwest. She plunked the tangle of twine down for it.

Lead fishing weights became the scattered mages and templars across the Hinterlands in the south. No matter which side you were on, these groups were hostile enough to attack on sight without asking any questions. Men, women, and children all numbered among their victims.

No one understood the tear in the sky, spewing forth monstrous demons and catastrophe. They only knew it happened following the explosion at the conclave, which claimed the lives of all Mage and Templar leaders who had gathered there to broach a testy peace. All lives save one—a human woman, a young Circle mage, who was thrown unconscious out of the fade rift with one hand glowing the same sickly green which the breach infected the sky with. She had been unable to provide any answers.

Leliana, the spymaster, was a trained assassin. She was mourning the death of her beloved mentor. And she had Many. Questions.

The tip of her dagger became the marker for Haven. She left it jutting upright and wavering, the tent flap fluttering behind her as she exited.

 


	2. Cassandra I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters always start with a letter or note from one character to another, usually a character not appearing in the chapter.

_16 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age_

_My dear Josie,_

_Do you know anything about Ostwick nobility? (Who am I kidding—of course you do!)_

_I think the prisoner’s family name is Trevelyan. Please give me a report on any magically-inclined branches of the Trevelyan line._

_Love,_

_L._

* * *

 

**18 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age**

**Haven Sparring Fields**

 

Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine and Seeker of the Chantry, skewered a practice dummy.

She growled and yanked her sword free; stabbed it again. This dummy was a lie. It was soft, and burlap, with dry cotton insides. Real men squealed like stuck pigs when you ran them through. They bled, the flesh would resist, and their hot blood would steam and hiss when it hit the white snow. The practice dummy was insufficient.

“Lady Pentaghast.” Ser Cullen Rutherford, Inquisition Commander and man-at-arms, nodded as he passed.

“Commander,” she answered with a brisk nod.  And another dummy-stab.

The Commander paused, turning his head to watch her as he handed off a report to a new cadet. “Ah, if I may, my lady—you’re tucking your elbow when you thrust. I’d be happy to show you the proper—”

Cassandra whirled around, sword clutched in hand, dark eyes flashing.

The Commander swallowed, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I, ah—I see. Apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Cassandra softened at his earnestness. “Forgiven, Commander. I am not so much practicing right now as I am…”

“Punishing?” The Commander supplied, wry smile tugging at the scar on his lip.

“Precisely.”

Their world was in chaos, and Cassandra was punishing a dummy for it.


	3. Solas I

_19 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age_

_Dear Cassandra,_

_Leliana has asked me to prepare a report on the Trevelyan noble family. I thought you might want to have a look at this, as well—maybe you recognize some of these names? You’ll be interested to see how deeply rooted the Trevelyans are with the Templars. The Trevelyans have even shared circles with the Montilyets at times, although I do not recall ever seeing the prisoner at any functions._

_We believe it is Evelyn Trevelyan that you have currently in custody. Youngest daughter of Bann Orin Trevelyan of Ostwick. And the only Circle Mage in the family. She was surrendered when she was six._

_This is likely why I have never seen her before, despite her nobility._

_Ever Faithful,_

_Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet_

_~Ambassador of the Inquisition~_

 

* * *

 

**19 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age**

**Haven Dungeon**

 

Solas wrung the rag out in his fist, letting the excess water drip into the basin on the side table. He swiped the girl’s brow. Wherever she wandered in the Fade; it was making her whimper and frown.

She clenched her fist—the one with the mark—open and closed again. The mark had begun the size of a pebble and now ran like a green, glowing scar across her palm. It was growing, and it was killing her. The mark seemed to spread at the same rate as the one in the sky did.

“Ir abelas, child,” Solas spoke through a weary sigh.

“Wh-what?” The girl croaked, coughing, her eyes struggling to open. She had a thick scar on her cheek, raised and pink. He’d have to ask her about its origins at another time.

“Ah,” Solas said, looking up—the guards had heard her. He saw the glint of their steel boots as they stomped up the stairs.

The guards would be returning with manacles. And Cassandra.

“I said, I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

Her first act as prisoner was to forgive him, the apostate elf. He would have smiled, had the situation been less dire.

She worked her eyes open then, and focused on him. Out of professional curiosity, Solas tipped the human’s chin and peered into her eyes. The irises bore an uncanny resemblance to the same sickly green striping her palm. The center of the girl’s irises were a pulsing pink.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

The guards shuffled back in with a furious Cassandra at their heels, scowl fixed and ready.

“She is—ah, careful! She is not well!” Solas cried out, hand reaching for the girl, whose head lolled alarmingly when they yanked her off the bed.

She didn’t resist as they stuffed her wrists into iron manacles. She dragged her head up and looked at Solas while they chained her ankles.

“You were in my dream,” she said, solemn-faced. And then she fainted dead.

“Mala suledin nadas,” Solas said, a whisper no one heard under the string of Cassandra’s barked curses.

 _Now you must endure_.

 

 


	4. Cullen I

_20 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age_

_Lady Nightingale._

_The place has been cleaned out, but we have a trail. We’re following a lead on the item you requested. We’ll send word when we arrive at our next location._

_-Scout Padmore_

 

* * *

 

**20 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age**

**Frostback Mountains, path to the Temple of Sacred Ashes**

 

Cullen was flattened by a creature made of wood. A terror demon, so the apostate had explained. Not actually made of wood, but a spidery giant on four legs with creaking joints and unearthly shrieks all the same.

It towered over Cullen as he thrust his sword upwards, hoping to pierce the thick hide on of these tries. Even with his past as a Templar, Cullen’s abilities to dispel magic did nothing to these beasts.

When the shrieking lowered in pitch and the roiling pale-as-piss magic began to spread outwards from it, seeping and bubbling in a near-invisible energy wave, that’s when Cullen knew he was about to be made very uncomfortable.

And thus, he was flattened. The damn creature had got on top of him, insect-like arms and legs caging him in, limbs as long as tree branches. The creature could open its mouth wide enough to turn its head inside-out, seventy dull black eyes remained unblinking and sharp, dry teeth still snapping.

Cullen lowered his sword and held his shield in both hands, and used it as a platform to roll out from beneath the dreadful creaking beast. When he righted again, he tried lopping off the dangling half of its ugly head.

That did the trick.

Cullen and a small contingent of soldiers were stationed under the spitting green fade rift and slaying the demons that poured forth. The demons coming through showed no sign of abating. The Commander wasn’t at the point where he should be worried for him and his soldiers, but he was at the point where he was reassuring himself of that fact, incessantly.

They just had to hold out until Cassandra and the prisoner arrived. The prisoner was a mage and had been...infected with some of the tainted magic causing the rifts in the Veil, and the Breach to suck up the sky and spit back demons. The apostate elf, ever helpful, believed her mark could be used to close the rifts. He also believed it was killing her. Cullen could only hope the former of those events would precede the latter, or Maker save them all.

The rift above their heads pulsed, and streams of green light burst forth. A strange humming began.

Cullen sighed, and twirled his sword with his wrist. _Not this, again._

The streams of green light solidified and left behind wisps, another lesser Terror demon, and a lesser shade demon. These creatures were easy to kill, so Commander Cullen roared orders to his soldiers and then followed suit.

He was shoving a boot into the shade’s chest to push him off his swordpoint when the creature flickered, faded, and the green cast of light above them jumped.

The Commander spun around and saw a blessed sight: Cassandra had arrived. Solas had his hand in an iron grip around the girl’s wrist and was pointing her mark at the rift. The girl trembled, it appeared, until she saw that it was working. The same eerie green light pulsed in a jet from her palm to the rift in sky above their heads and then with a sickening crunch and the loud sound of the sky collapsing in on itself, the girl clenched her hand into a fist and _ripped_ —the rift burst apart with it.

She’d done it. She’d closed a fade rift.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Cullen remembered his manners and made way for an introduction. He’d never seen the girl before; she’d been unconscious and held prisoner. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to satisfy his curiosity about her in such a state, even if she was potentially a mass murderer.

When he drew closer, Cullen realized she wasn’t as young as he’d assumed from far away. More  young woman than girl. And Maker’s _breath_ , her eyes—the irises were the same sick green as the tear in the Veil. The centers were cherry red.

He decided not to offer his hand just yet. His gauntlets were leather, but that was for stopping metal and not magic. She was quite pretty, he noticed. _A pity._

“Hello. I’m Commander Cullen Rutherford,” he spoke tersely, looking down at her.

“Hello. I—was just leaving,” she replied, and brushed right past him. She did it without once making eye contact.

Cullen shot an inquisitive look at Cassandra, who in return just raised her eyebrows and bunched her shoulders up to her ears as she followed behind the girl.

_Well, that’s good then. The prisoner is barking mad._

Varric chuckled, and Cullen realized he hadn’t even noticed the dwarf until just then.

“Don’t sweat it, Curly. Kid’s having a bad day.” Varric cuffed Cullen’s arm as he trailed behind them, slinging his beloved crossbow over his shoulder.

 

 


	5. Evelyn I

_1 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age_

~~_Dear mother,_ ~~

~~_They are calling me Herald._ ~~

~~_I miss you. I miss father. How is Brand_ ~~

~~_Why did you stop writing to me at the Circle? Is it because you heard what_ ~~

_Mother—_

_If you care to know, I was at the Conclave. I survived. The people here are calling me the Herald of Andraste._

_Another year gone. Happy First Day, mummy._

_I love you._

_Your Daughter,_

_An apostate (sorry)_

 

* * *

 

**30 Haring, 9:41 Dragon Age**

**Haven Tavern**

 

The small tavern was bursting with bodies; ripe-smelling and loudened by ale. Evelyn Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, former Inquisition prisoner, current apostate and eighteen year old apprentice mage of the (former) Ostwick Circle, was drunk and playing darts with some handsome soldiers.

“Oi, you got to—here, lemme—” One such soldier “helped” her aim, his tall body flush against hers as he stood behind Evelyn. He placed one hand on her hip and the other wrapped around her hand with the dart in it.

Evelyn curled her lip and shot a look at the seated cadets; they all laughed.

Rolling her eyes, Evelyn returned to the task at hand. She let him feint a throw, once, twice, and on the third time she released the dart.

Bulls-eye.

If she’d been aiming for Flissa’s arse, that is. Flissa squealed and shot a brokenhearted look at the young men, who clamored to apologize—in the furor, Evelyn slipped away. Stumbled, really. Those nice young men had given her _loads_ of ale.

She made it outside. The heavy tavern door clattered shut behind her, taking with it the chaotic noise of drunken holiday revelry.

She inhaled. The air was so cold and crisp that it burned the back of her throat and made her lungs ache all the way down. After the stale reek of sweat and alcohol, this hurt was Maker-sent.

She looked up to find the pale new moon, and with it, the possibility of the new year—but the night sky was clouded and leaden.

She ambled past the flickering fire pit at the front of camp, and looked for Varric. His usual spot was absent, and Evelyn supposed he was somewhere off celebrating. She imagined his voice anyway, as she passed. If it was morning he’d say, “Hey there, Angel. Who’re we saving today?” and she’d laugh and say something silly like, “Every bored mermaid singing to me in the Waking Sea,” or simply, “ _Cassandra_.”

Or at night he’d smile and wave, “Goodnight, Angel.”

Evelyn liked Varric. He’d been kind to her right from the start, without any questions. So had Solas, certainly, but the elf remained aloof, somewhat clinical in his dealings with her. He’d ask her how she felt again and again, but there was nothing of friendship in it—he was curious. He was checking to see if the mark was still stagnating or if it had decided to kill her again.

Evelyn had a destination in mind as she squeaked and heaved open the heavy front gates. The snow gathered under the gate, scraping and sticking into piles she had to kick free before it would open fully.

When she made it outside the gates, the susurration of snow began slow whispers around her. She paused and beamed at the sky, letting the snowflakes catch on her eyelashes. She should feel colder, but she felt fine. She felt alive.

Evelyn thought of her other new friends as she meandered, kicking snow. Cassandra, she secretly adored. She loved how flustered the older woman got when Evelyn flirted with her. Cassandra was one of those difficult people who guarded their tender, careening hearts with fierce protection and fury; but Evelyn had a mind to carve a space for herself in it. Cassandra would warm to her and Evelyn would win the woman over, eventually. They both cared too much about the state of things.   

The ex-templar couldn’t even look at her. Prig.

If Evelyn cared to, she’d make the Commander feel better about her magics by reminding him she was only an apprentice mage—she hadn’t declared a specialty before the Circle collapsed. She’d studied entry spells for each of the elements, and could burn, freeze, or electrify enemy arse—but she couldn’t conjure up the great storms of fire and ice that her superiors were proficient with.

She could hurt a fly. But without a staff, that was pretty much it.

It might be the eyes. Solas had studied them, and asked her questions since she’d woken up in the Inquisition’s dungeons.

She’d caught wavering snatches of her face in ice puddles and silver spoon backs, enough to be startled. They’d changed, when she came out of the rift. Evelyn Trevelyan had been born with green eyes, but a human color. Not the same color green as—

Her eyes automatically shot up, searching out the Breach in the sky. Even with the silvery-white clouds interfering, the Breach still glowed sickly, magicky green from beneath. The new color of her eyes. The centers, so she’d been told, glowed as red as hell pits.

She restrained herself from tracing the ugly scar on her cheek again. It was a clean line down along her cheekbone. Still pink and new.

She probably wouldn’t want to look at herself, either.

“Oi—there she is! Herald! Wotter you _doin'_?” One of the cadets, the one she’d been flirting with called out to her; the question came laced with chatter as his fellow drunk soldiers stumbled along with him.

“I wanted to climb the trebuchet and see the new year come in!” She called back, laughing. She let them catch up with her. She let the tall one put his arm around her. She feigned a shudder and relished when he tightened that warm arm around her.

They reached the nearest trebuchet and started to twine themselves around the rafter beams of it; cold hands slipping numbly along the icy wood.

One of her new friends (she didn’t know any of their names, not even the tall one’s) fumbled for something in his pocket and cursed when it dropped. He kicked around the new snowfall, searching in the dark.

“Where’s that buggering...that...Lady Herald, use your glowy bits to give us a light, yeah?”

Evelyn bit the fingers of her glove between her teeth and dragged it off. She flattened her palm towards the boy on the ground, and whatever it was he was searching for.

“Ah! Got it! Right, so…” He picked the pocketwatch out of the snow and brushed it off to squint at it in the pale green wash of light. “Thirty seconds until the new year.”

They grew quiet and counted in their heads. The tall one reached for Evelyn’s hand, and she smiled in the dark, thinking she’d get a kiss out of this night. Not such a bad holiday, all things considered.

“ _Ten, nine…_ ”

She squeezed the tall one’s hand.

“ _Eight, seven…_ ”

They counted through breathless, drunk giggles. Some of them were as young as she was.

“ _Six, five…_ ”

His hand raised hers to his mouth; he brushed the back of her knuckles against his chapped lips. She rolled her eyes but it was too dark for anyone to see.

“ _Four, three…_ ”

Someone yelped and nearly lost their balance; they all laughed and forgot to count.

“ _One_!” A boy shouted, whooping in glee. They all cheered. The tall one pulled Evelyn’s face close to his and kissed her; his breath sour with ale. She grimaced, and put her palm on his face to push his head away from her.

“What—What in the _blazes_ are you idiots _doing up there!?_ ”

“Shit—it’s the Commander—”

“Run!” said the tall one, and he loped off into the darkness. _Coward_ , Evelyn scowled. Within seconds, she was the only one left.

“Er—Lady Evelyn? Is that you?”

“No!” she called out, petulant.

“Oh, Maker’s breath. You glow in the dark. I know it’s you.”

She grumbled and began to climb down. The Commander automatically held a hand up to assist her, but flinched when she reached out with her marked hand. Evelyn snatched it back and stared at him.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re no fun, Commander?”

“Yes. Often. Assuredly. Now please, get off the war machine.”

She hopped down without his assistance and stumbled a little, still woozy from drinking.

“May I escort you to your cabin?” the Commander asked; another polite reflex.

“It’s the least you can do after scaring off my entourage.”

“Er—were those my newest recruits?”

“...Maybe? One is quite tall?”

“Yes. You met them in the Hinterlands and recruited them there. The lads are still quite taken with you.”

“I can tell.”

They walked in silence, footsteps soft in the fresh, powdery snow.

“What were you doing out here?” Evelyn asked suddenly. “I mean, my excuse is that I was up to no good. What’s yours?”

“I was at the lake.”

“And?”

“And,” he sighed, pushing the gate open for Evelyn to walk through, “I was wishing it were a lake.”

Evelyn was too distracted by a welcome sight as they entered Haven again—Varric warming his hands by the bonfire.

“Happy First Day, Angel!” He smiled, palms rasping as he rubbed them together over the fire.

“Varric!” She cried, forgetting about Cullen and rushing forward. “Happy First Day!”

“Oof,” he wheezed as she knocked into him with a big, messy, drunken hug. “Ease up.”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Did you hear about our newest marching orders?” he asked, tilting his head.

“No! Where are we off to next?”

“Val Royeaux.”

Her eyes widened and she lost all trace of merriment as that sunk in. Evelyn Trevelyan had been sent off to the Ostwick Circle of Mages at age six, and hadn’t left until the Conclave. In the month since then, she’d been to more places than she had traveled to in the entirety of her previous life. She’d met more people. She’d kissed boys and girls. She’d even made a friend.

And now she was getting to travel to the most famous trade center on the continent.

The last month of this year was both better and worse than Evelyn’s entire life preceding it. From sheltered Circle Mage to Herald of Andraste. Evelyn thought that this was a bright side worth clinging to; no one knew if closing the Breach would destroy her. She could live a little, until then. As much as she could. As much as she could catch up on, in the brief time that was left to her.

Then came the keen wish, with it the fervent yearning—Evelyn’s daily allotment of self-pity.

She missed her mother terribly.


	6. Josephine I

_11 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age_

 

_H—_

_You should see the blisteringly hot little piece they’ve got running this shit. A real peach, too._

_Bianca’s mad at me,_

_Varric_

 

_Post Script—Hello Spymaster. Stop reading my missives._

 

* * *

 

**14 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age**

**Lady Montilyet’s Office - Haven Chantry**

 

Leliana planted her feet, still within armored boots, on top of the desk. She lounged in a quite unladylike manner, slouched in her seat and her hands clasped over her stomach. Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, Ambassador to the Inquisition, raised one eyebrow, but said nothing of reproach and sipped her tea. Her friend was quite obviously exhausted.

The night was late and they were delaying returning to their own quarters, catching up on gossip and sharing snatches of the Game as it filtered to their humble Inquisition from Orlais. The rising political turmoil in Orlais made them both tense, but there was nothing to be done about it yet when their lives faced the more immediate threat of monsters pouring from the sky.

The Chantry doors opened and blew in a cold wind laden with dry leaves scuttling low on the stones. They heard the familiar jangle of armor and stilled their talk as they waited for Cassandra to poke her head in the door.

The warrior knocked softly first before peering in. She was a bit sunburned, but seemed unharmed overall.

“Lady Cassandra, please do come in.” Josephine made to stand and offer her chair, but Cassandra waved her off with a grunt, and perched on the corner of the desk. She gratefully accepted when Josephine offered her some tea.

“So, Seeker? How fares the Herald? How were the Hinterlands?” Leliana asked, one corner of her mouth tilted down in an exhausted smile.

Cassandra tilted her head this way and that as she blew on her tea and waited for it to cool. They’d only arrived moments ago, judging from the state of her muddy boots and that she was still in full heavy armor. She took a gulp and grimaced, shaking her head with disgust at the taste.

“Ugh, Ferelden tea is so bitter. I thought you were giving me something from Antiva.”

“Sadly, no. Antivan delicacies seem to be...lacking, this far South.” Josephine put it delicately.

Cassandra gave up the comfort of a hot drink and sighed, crossing her arms. “The Hinterlands went well. The Herald is fine, a little tired. As I’m sure we all are.”

Leliana snorted her noise of agreement.

“She convinced the horsemaster to join us.”

“Did she?” Josephine perked up—this man was notoriously hard to please and infamously difficult. They needed his mounts and expertise, however, and Josephine had sent the Herald in person, hoping to appease him. It appeared the gambit paid off.

“Yes, she did.” Cassandra smiled a little. “She had us running around killing possessed wolves to keep his homestead safe, and she even raced the horsemaster’s daughter.”

Leliana laughed. “And she won? Had she even ridden a horse before?”

“Oh, no, not since she was a very small child. Before she went to the Circle. No, Master Dennet’s daughter—Sienna—whipped her sorely out on the courses. But the Herald was a good sport about losing, and managed to charm Sienna from it.”

“And that was enough to recruit Master Dennet?”

“No, that was enough for Master Dennet to agree to supply the Inquisition with two hundred of his finest mounts.”  

“And then what?” Josephine leaned in, thrilled for the gossip—however dull it was.

“And then she just asked him outright, ‘ _What about you Ser Dennet?_ ’ and when the man started hemming and hawing, she just looks over at me and”—Cassandra demonstrates the queenly head nod of affirmation to Josephine, who giggled—“and lets me speak to him. I appealed to his grander sense of purpose,” she suppressed a smile and unsnapped one of the ties to her scaled veridium gauntlet.

“She’s learning, then!” Josephine felt an enormous amount of encouragement from this. Evelyn Trevelyan was...green, shall we say. But if she could defer when necessary, play to their strengths—it would make Inquisition dealings with local nobility all the stronger. A necessity for building up the Inquisition image at large.

“She is,” Cassandra nodded, tugging the gauntlet off. “It might be too early to tell, but I think—I think she could be named Inquisitor.”

Leliana let out a light, rippling laugh. “You’re joking, surely? Why, she’s even younger than Josie!”

Lady Josephine bristled. “I served as Ambassador in the Royal Court at Orl—”

“Yes, Josie, we know. You have the experience she doesn’t and that’s what makes you different. Did you know,”—Leliana’s voice dropped and she looked from Cassandra to Josephine as she divulged—“Evelyn hadn’t even declared a specialty at the Circle? She was in her final year as an apprentice, with no element to specialize in!”

“No!” Josephine gasped. “I had no idea! She seems so...competent.”

“Hm,” Leliana shrugged neatly. “There is a difference in competence and confidence. I fear she may have an abundance of the latter.”

Cassandra was watching them with a slight sneer. “I mean no disrespect—”

“She says, before she says something disrespectful.” Leliana muttered. Josephine laughed.

Cassandra shot her an aggrieved scowl. “As I was saying, I mean no disrespect, but you have not truly seen her in the field. You have no idea what she’s doing out there. She’s laying the groundwork for the Inquisition in a way none of us would be able to. We come to these war-torn villages and settlements and if she hears something in passing about refugee starvation or needing blankets—the first thing out of the Herald’s mouth is ‘ _How can I help?_ ’”

Leliana and Josephine were quiet as they waited for the warrior to continue.

“And even though these villagers have no idea who she is—just some girl traveling with...a warrior, an apostate, and an archer elf—” Her tone dipped with disapproval on _archer elf_ and they knew exactly who it was she spoke of: Sera. “But they take any help they can get. So they say yes. And Evelyn, when she’s out there, she remembers all this—Maker watch over her for it. She remembers the blankets. She hunts the rams, feeds the refugees. She find’s the widow’s wedding ring—plucks it off a dead Templar body and returns it.”

“Really?” Josephine asked. Her question was laced less with disbelief and more...pleasant surprise.

Cassandra nodded. “I was irritated at first, the more of these silly quests she kept picking up. But then, as if she’d intended it all along—they began to flock to her. They pledged Inquisition support. That minor lordling, whatever his name is, he’s helping you now?” She jutted her chin to Josephine.

“Lord Berand.”

“Yes, that idiot. She went out of her way to inform him of his lover’s demise and deliver a love letter. And when he was lost and grieving, she plucked him up and put him to work for us. Speaker Anais, she is working for you now Leliana?”

Leliana nodded. She’d already been receiving reports from the Winterwatch Tower.

“Another agent acquired by the Herald. She is...drawing them in.”

“She’s gathering an army,” Leliana said, impressed.

“Yes,” Cassandra agreed. “And we did not teach her this.”

“Beginning to notice not all agents of the Inquisition can be intimidated into joining, are we?” Leliana lightly teased.

Cassandra snorted, and folded her arms. “At least recruits do not scatter and scurry in the opposite direction when I approach, assassin.”

Leliana gave the woman a small smile as she sipped her tea. “You sound jealous.”  

Cassandra arched a pointed black eyebrow. “...Slightly.”

“She’s becoming even more of a symbol,” Josephine mused, ignoring them. “This is good. Do you know, Cassandra—does the Herald follow the faith of the Maker?”

“I...yes. She believes. She has...confided as much in me.”

“Yes, this is very good. We can work this angle—a pious, chaste Herald of Andraste—almost as good as a living saint!” Josephine’s eyes grew wide as she considered the potential outcomes, cunning mind spinning them out into dizzying array and refracting with a hundred possibilities.

“I need to do some more digging to be sure, but as long as we don’t dance too close to martyring the poor girl, I’m game.” Leliana shrugged, and Cassandra accepted her agreement with a short nod.

“Cullen will need convincing, of course. But if he comes around…” Cassandra began, and trailed off.

“We’ll have a Inquisitor of the faith,” Josephine finished. “As well as a Circle Mage with ties to nobility. I support this as well.”

“I thank you both.” Cassandra paused to pick at a loose scale in her armor, staring down at her thigh. “Do _not_ tell her I said any of this. She will get a big head.”  

 


	7. Leliana II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for past mention of sexual abuse—Evelyn brings up abuses her classmates/fellow mages faced at the hands of templars in her Circle.

_18 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age_

 

_[A crude drawing of swarms of bees with Sera’s name written several times over it.]_

_Herald._

_I cannot read this. Can you make sense of it?_

_-Commander Cullen_

 

* * *

 

**20 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age**

**War Room - Haven Chantry**

 

Leliana leaned heavily on the desk, planting her palms as she scrutinized the War Room table. The map had been upgraded—an artist had painted Thedas with painstaking detail and geographic locations. And Haven’s Blacksmith, Harritt, had forged them iron pieces to replace the fishing weights and other assorted items.

He’d presented the pieces to Leliana, almost nervous as he held them out and declared, “Movement like the Inquisition needs quality in every detail, great and small.” When she’d opened the heavy crate she’d found iron fists and ornamental daggers packed in hay—markers for the War Room map. She’d looked up to thank the man, but with his duty fulfilled he’d fled from her in discomfit.

The Herald of Andraste sat on the war table, dangling her feet off the edge and kicking lightly as she watched Leliana over her shoulder. Earlier she’d huffed out a breath and slumped against Leliana, a bratty show of boredom while Cullen was speaking. Leliana couldn’t help but laugh softly and help the girl untangle some of her hair where it had caught on her chainmail tunic.

They were in a recess now, taking a break before the Herald and her advisors returned to the war table and finish outlining their next maneuvers.

“No, that one’s done.” The Herald pointed to a small arch Leliana had just placed.

“The apostate holdout? You cleared that already?”

The Herald nodded, still kicking her feet.

Leliana couldn’t help but compare this girl’s easy manner with her to how the hardened blacksmith Harritt had fled from her earlier.

It wasn’t as if Evelyn didn’t know who Leliana was. Their first true conversation had been a spat after the girl had eavesdropped on the spymaster’s tent and overheard a plan to slit a traitor’s throat. And then the girl had stamped her foot and refused to allow it to happen, traitor or no. They’d fought and Leliana had snapped, dismissed the Herald with disgust—but over the weeks the Herald had come slinking back into her tent, asking dozens of questions.

Leliana had taken a sick pleasure in answering bluntly about her past and her purpose, hoping to make the girl squirm. It hadn’t worked. The girl was apparently more comfortable with her now than ever before.

“How…” Leliana paused, unsure of how to best phrase her next question. Evelyn looked up, expectant. Leliana wasn’t used to getting information out of marks the traditional way. Everything she wanted to know about anyone usually had a paper trace. There were a great many things she was still endeavoring to unravel about the Herald, but she settled for something simple.

“How are you doing? With the fighting?”

The Herald shrugged, nonchalant, but her feet stilled and she flicked her eyes away.

“It can’t be easy,” Leliana pressed, before adding softly, “It never was for me.”

Evelyn considered and tucked her hair behind her ear. It was an almost impossible black, inky and glossed. Her skin was that golden color of northern nobility; a Trevelyan trademark. She had freckles and scars on her face, freshest of which she wouldn’t talk about.

“You’d be surprised,” Evelyn answered. “It’s a lot easier to kill someone when they’re trying to kill me first, I guess.” She stopped and smiled: wide but mirthless. “The instinct to survive takes over I’d wager. And I go somewhere else. In my head. It’s not as bad as—” She stopped, swallowed. Her ears turned red.  

“Not as bad as what?” Leliana urged, gently but hurried. Cullen had just come back in.

“Well. I mean, _you_ know.”

“Know what?” Her eyes shot to the door: Cassandra returning. Once Josie got back they’d get to work again.

“Skirmishes bring a context to fighting that I can live with, I guess. Killing someone in a battle isn’t as bad as killing someone outright. In cold blood. Even if they hurt you first.”

Leliana jerked her head back to the young Herald, who was studying her reaction intently, eerie green eyes unwavering.

“Oh, sweetness,” was all Leliana could whisper. She didn’t have time for more; Josie was back and she’d brought them a tray of tea and snacks.

They munched appreciatively and settled in again. The war between the Mages and Templars had been brought to a standstill in the Hinterlands thanks to their efforts, and there was a choice now—to side with one of them.

“Mages. That’s who I’d choose.” Leliana spoke first, before Cullen could. She watched the set of his jaw and the tremble in his hands, an omnipresent tick over the past few weeks. She knew its significance.

“I agree,” Evelyn said simply. She’d gotten off the table and was now staring down with focus.

Cullen began, “Herald, if I may—”

“You may not.”

Leliana shared a startled (albeit delightfully scandalized) look with Josephine across the war table.

Cassandra tried next. “Evelyn, of course we will support you either way, but—”

“We ally with the mages.”

“Then we will make that happen,” Josephine answered her kindly. Evelyn smiled in thanks.

“I am not disagreeing with you, I would just...care to know your reasoning?” Cassandra asked, tilting her head. The question she posed did seem genuine, and not as a method of misleading the young woman into making a different decision.

“ _I’m a mage_. That already puts me at a disadvantage choosing to ally with Templars, who would _never_ see me as an equal. Even if they did agree to join the Inquisition—unlikely, after what we saw in Val Royeaux—whatever footing I hold as some kind of mascot, or—or—figurehead will be lost once the templars come. I refuse. Even when they’re good, they’re bad.” She shot an afterthought of a glance at Commander Cullen. “Present company notwithstanding.”

The Commander gave her a brusque nod, carefully maintaining his quiet composure. Leliana could see the man straining at the seams to argue.

“At the Circle, we couldn’t do anything wrong in the slightest for fear of being made Tranquil, but worse than that was if you were too good. Too bad and you were taken away and branded, but too good—too polite, adept, whatnot—and then they _noticed_ you. And that’s when more troubles began.”

Their Herald was typically bright and cheerful, bounding about the village while all smiles and sunshine-y wiles, beguiling on each snowy day, but there was an unfettered edge of first-hand knowledge sharpening her voice that no one dared question.  

Leliana could see Josephine’s face widening in shock across the table, but she kept her own a mask as Evelyn looked up and addressed them. “So the only solution was to be invisible. Be meaningless. Do just enough to pass your courses, never excelling at anything, and duck your heads in the hallways. Spend your nights alone in the library stacks. Maker forbid you _smile_ at a templar in passing, lest he be one of the ones lonely enough to get the wrong idea and try to take advantage of his position. It’s not right, the vows some Templars take against wives and the like. It drives them mad half the time, and turns them into a _far_ easier target for Desire Demons, in my opinion.”

She rounded on Cullen, eyes flashing in anger as she spoke to only him. “But even unpossessed—they commit these crimes with impunity, you know—they pin little mages against walls, rucking their robes up and forcing them to do things. They’d use Purge on mages so they couldn’t use magic to fight back. They’d Dispel mages, which, I don’t know if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of, Commander—but it disables one’s voice. So these mages, my peers—could not even scream. Templars knew this. They did whatever they wanted, confident their prey will stay quiet afterwards if they don’t want the rite of Tranquility to be invoked.”

Commander Cullen, to his credit, stayed quiet and took it. He stared at her with near-naked pity, hand resting atop his sword pommel.

Evelyn took a deep breath and reached for the table marker, one they used for large operations, and planted firmly it over Redcliffe. “I’m uninterested in allying with the Templars, to answer your question, Cassandra. If I'm to die sealing the Breach, I’d rather perish among my own kind.”

They were all silent. No one could argue with that.

 


	8. Evelyn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> same tw as the previous chapter for sexual abuse—Cullen and Evelyn talk about what just happened.

_3 Guardian, 9:42 Dragon Age_

 

_Lady Nightingale._

_We Found It. We make our departure for Haven now. I am sending our return path ahead of us by way of raven in the event we perish—you’ll still be able to trace our steps and retrieve it from our bodies._

_-Scout Padmore_

 

* * *

 

**21 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age**

**Military Command Tent, Haven**

 

She heard the low murmur of the Commander’s voice through the canvas as she stood outside and waited. He’d sent for her, and she’d arrived to hear him delve into some orders with his recruits. She shifted from one foot to the other as she waited, and wondered if she were about to be chastised.

The tent flapped open and out came—Jim, was it?—one of the usual minions who lurked adoringly around Cullen, yipping at his heels and waiting for the Commander to bark the next order. Jim started at the sight of her and she stepped back to permit him room to pass. Before the tent flap fluttered shut again, she could see inside to where the Commander stared hard at her, face drawn in an ominous expression.

He beckoned.

She leaned in halfway, still standing outside the tent. “You wanted to see me, Commander?”

“Yes, ah—please. Come in.” He rubbed the back of his neck. He’d looked pale and tired these past few days, a pallor predating her recent tirade.

“Your Worship,” he began, “I thought it best if we spare a moment to, er, clear the air. As it were.”

“If you’re waiting for an apology—”

“I’m not.” He cut her off. “I only wanted to speak my part. May I?”

She nodded. He sounded so rehearsed, enough to make her wonder if he’d stayed awake the night before scripting this confrontation.

“Firstly, I understand your feelings for Templars. I saw...terrible things when I numbered among them. Things, I—” He broke off.

 _Ah, he’s veering off-script_ , Evelyn thought. _Stick to your lines, Commander._

He swallowed, shuffled his feet. “Things I should have put a stop to. Worse, things I may have deliberately turned a blind eye to. I was not the same following my time at the Lake Calahad Circle during the Blight.”

“You were—”

“Yes. I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt again—but yes. I’d rather not speak of it yet.”

Evelyn nodded for him to continue. She was as far away from him as she could get in the tented space—if someone were to enter, they’d barrel right into her just inside the threshold.

“So I do understand the unfortunate situation faced by mages—”

“Serial rapists frequenting the dorms is not an _unfortunate situation_ , Commander.” Her turn to cut him off.

The dark look on his face, the rising tide of anger said it all: he had not included or accounted for the word rape in his script. She was not going to allow him off the hook so easily, but he’d reacted with enough fury to satisfy her. And it would seem that they felt similarly.

“No, it isn’t, Your Worship. You’re right, of course.” He fixed her with a stern stare and took a deep breath. “All the same, I thought it time I assure you—not only that you have nothing to worry about from me, but that if any of my former brothers-in-arms were to try and raise a hand to you in an act of violence, I would gut them myself. Do you—ahem—ah, have I made myself clear?”

She nodded, finding herself mute.

“Good. That was all. Thank you for listening, Herald.” He gifted her a brisk nod, thoroughly dismissing her as he faced away and began shuffling the scattered parchment reports on his desk.

 


	9. Varric I

_25 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age_

_[Leliana’s notes on Blackwall—circled, at the top, is the bolded question “Montsimmard???”]_

 

* * *

 

**27 Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon Age**

**Haven Tavern**

 

“Bloody—stupid— _stop frigging squirming_!” Sera clamped her hand around the Herald’s chin, pinning her shoulders down with her knees and sitting atop her chest.

“Your scrawny elf  knees are like daggers!” Evelyn complained.

“Right. Fine. Won’t be my fault when you end up with a flopping dick on your face, then.”

That got Evelyn to settle down. She huffed through her nose and stilled.

Varric continued watching from his seat at the tavern counter while Sera dipped the sharpened needle into a pot of black ink. She hunched forward again, furrowing her brow in concentration as she bit her lip and leaned close.

“Are you going to kiss me, Sera?” Evelyn asked.

“Ha,” a breathy laugh left the back of the elf’s throat, she was too busy concentrating to banter. “You wish.”

Sera began to press the needle into the area around Evelyn’s eye socket with slow, deliberate care. “Trust me, ‘s gonna look smashing.”

“I believe you,” Evelyn winced.

“Oi!”

Evelyn whimpered, keeping her face frozen despite protest.

Varric was already drafting the telling of this story in a letter to Hawke, who was still holed up in her family’s old cabin near Sundermount with Fenris.

It was stupid o’clock in the shitty morning and they were due to set off for the Hinterlands again. Blackwall, a new member of their team, warrior and Grey Warden, was venturing out with them for the first time. He’d been with the Inquisition for a couple weeks at Haven and had made himself at home beside the smithy.

Varric paused and moved his plate of egg and sausage aside as he scribbled a note to himself: “ _Blackwall, Grey Warden, Blacksmith... ~~white knight?~~_ ”

Sera had been with them since Val Royeaux, and ever since she’d met the Herald and exposed her plot of stealing breeches, which had made Evelyn laugh uproariously—the two girls had been thick as...well, thieves.

Varric made another note to himself as the tavern door opened, bringing in a bracing gust of chilled wintry air with Blackwall as he entered: “ _stealing breeches, sealing Breaches, thick as thieves._ ”

“Sorry for the delay, I seem to have misplaced my—” Blackwall stopped short, his pack falling to the floor as he took in the scene.

Which, Varric supposed, _was_ probably alarming. Sera was pinning the Herald down, flat on her back on top of a dirty tavern table. She was tattooing the Herald’s holy face as dust motes floated in the stripe of morning light behind them. Varric found it was a bizarre, but peaceful scene.

Sera hissed and jerked her hand back with a lightning-fast reflex as the Herald lifted her head and peered down her chin at the Warden. “‘Morning!”

“What the on earth—oh, _no_ —Your Worship!”

“Hush, you!” Sera was indignant; as yet proud of her work.

“And _you_ —you’re ruining the Herald’s lovely _face_!”

“Don’t listen to him, Evvie. Your face is great.” The corner of Sera's tongue peeked out between her lips as she concentrated, resuming her work. “It can always be greater, though.”

“Varric!? How can you just sit there and let them do this? She’s the face of the Inquisition!”

Varric shrugged. “Kids will be kids.”

Blackwall huffed. He glanced askew at the girls on the table. “I’m getting Cassandra. She’ll put a stop to this,” he decided.

“ _Nooooooo_!” Evelyn quietly whined, keeping her face frozen. Sera’s fingers were pinching her chin and holding her head still.

Blackwall stormed out into the bright morning, and within a few seconds they heard the squawk of Cassandra’s voice rising across camp.

Varric swiveled around on his stool, facing Sera and Evelyn entirely. He narrowed his eyes and stared at Sera for a moment before raising his forefinger and taking a breath to announce, “I know what I’m going to call you, Sera.”

“What?”

“Buttercup.”

Sera shrugged, disinterested. She peered back down again at her detailed work.

“That’s a good one,” Evelyn muttered, keeping her mouth still.

“Wotcher. Who’s you, then?” Sera asked. Cassandra’s stomping drew nearer. The tinkling laughter of Lady Nightingale drifted closer as she approached.

“Angel,” Evelyn answered, a slow little smile raising the corners of her lips.

“Oh, _I_ get it.” Sera giggled, impish, and Evelyn soon joined in. 

“There!” She sat up with a flourish, releasing Evelyn from under her knees to sit on top of the table beside her. “Finished!”

The door burst open—Cassandra first, followed by Leliana. And then Blackwall.

Evelyn raised herself to her elbows, blinking at them. Though still a bit red and tender, Varric had to admit, the effect of Evelyn’s otherworldly beauty was well-complemented by the tattoo now surrounding one eye—a careful twinkling of tiny black crystals that perfectly continued the natural line of her eyebrow and curved around the cavity of her eye.

Cassandra moaned lightly. “You were so pretty!”

“She still is. Ease up, Seeker,” Varric objected.

Leliana giggled and walked in for a closer look. She stood at one end of the table and leaned down, sunlight from the bright window behind them catching the red in her hair and alighting it. Golden-haired Sera knelt beside black-haired Evelyn, who still lay back on the table.

“I don’t know, Cassandra,” Leliana said, sharing a hidden smile with Evelyn that the Seeker couldn’t see. “I quite like it.”

“Ugh,” was all Cassandra said.

Varric grabbed his parchment and quill again. He scrawled, “ _A blond, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a war…_ ”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm suuuuuper terrible at summaries but basically this will be like, a multi-POV retelling of Dragon Age with a bratty teenage!Inquisitor because YES, i am GOING THERE and i want to explore the in-between moments with all the characters. more drunken Wicked Grace around a table and less Coryfipenis, from unexpected character viewpoints. 
> 
> #girlsgonewild #dragonagestyle kind of thing wherein sera, evelyn, and dorian are like a party sorority. title comes from "golden star" by My Brightest Diamond bc it's stuck in my head and u know WHAT, i absolutely suck at titles.


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